Giovanni had told me to let Tomasso know if I needed anything. I think of asking where he is. Perhaps, I should apologize for this morning. The words build in my throat, but I don’t sign them. I don’t know how to.
Instead, I raise my hands to sign again. The garden is beautiful.
He glances around, a proud smile on his face. It's one of his favourite places.
I didn't need to find out that we have something in common. I can't form an emotional attachment to him more than I already have. I'll be doing myself a great disservice.
I pause, my hands faltering, but Tomasso seems to read something in my silence. He offers a small, understanding nod and says, “He had a meeting to attend. Business.”
And just like that, the thread of hope snaps. He didn’t ask after me. He didn’t come. He left. Of course. He’s moved on. Meanwhile, I’m here, unraveling at the speed of light.
I nod again, politely, and thank him. He bows his head politely and walks off.
I continue to the garden.
Three gardeners tend the hedges near the fountain. One clips at a cluster of lavender, the others bent low over a bed of marigolds. When they see me, they pause and curtsy. I smile at them in return.
I keep walking, letting the sweet scent and quiet carry me deeper into the path.
A heel clicks behind me, and I turn swiftly to behold whoever it is.
Camilla.
A smile is already spreading across her mouth, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s the kind of smile that coils. She’d been pleasant when we first met. Too pleasant. I'd seen through the polished, elegant, courteous greeting. I'd suspected it was for Giovanni’s sake.
I wasn't wrong.
“You’ve settled in nicely,” she says, her gaze flicking over me, pausing at my bare hands. I'd left my wedding band in my room. Is that a smile of triumph I see on her face? She continues. “Though I imagine it must be exhausting, pretending this is something real.”
I stay still. My fingers hover midair. I don't sign. I'd meant to. But now, I'm frozen on the spot.
She steps closer, her heels clicking on the stone path, her perfume thick and expensive. I hold my breath. She doesn’t look away from me. “Do you even understand what you’ve gotten yourself into? Or are you just so grateful someone finally wanted you?”
I blink. Her words are cruel. They're up there with the vile words my father throws at me. I don't even know her, and she hates me this much.
Her smile widens. “You think he married you out of affection? Oh, you sweet summer child.” She lets out a short breath that might be a laugh. “You are convenient. Nothing more. A body to warm his sheets. A mute, pliant thing that can’t even talk back.”
My hands twitch, but I can’t move them. I can’t respond. Not because I don’t know how—but because there’s nothing to say. Nothing that won’t sound like denial.
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Did you really think he’d want this? A broken little thing with nothing to offer but obedience and silence? That he’d choose you over women who actually have... worth?”
Each word lands like a stone in my chest. Not screamed. Not spat. Just... said. Cold and clean and awful.
I try to breathe. Try to lift my hands. Try to say anything at all. But they hang limply at my sides. She’s not saying anything I haven’t already told myself in a chastising voice.
Camilla watches me for a moment longer, then steps even closer. Her breath brushes my cheek. Her eyes are devoid of feeling, twin pools of vitriol. “He’ll grow tired of you. He always does. When he does, you’ll wish you’d kept some dignity.”
Then she turns and walks off. I watch as her figure melts back into the villa’s distance. Still, I don’t move. I can't.
The gardeners pretend not to notice. One of them keeps clipping lavender like she didn’t hear. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she did.
The silence is haunting. The seconds trickle down to just this moment, with the deafening roar in my ears.
I wrap my arms around myself. Not from cold, but from something deeper. I press my palms into my ribs like they’re the only things keeping me upright.
I should be angry. I should hate her, but I don’t. Because the worst part isn’t that she said those things. The worst part is that I believe her.
I believe that I’m nothing more than a quiet shadow Giovanni let into his home. That last night was just a moment of convenience, a release, a transaction of skin and heat and nothing else. That I offered myself and he took, and now... now I’m just here, lingering like an aftertaste.
